


That One Time Stiles Called Derek

by Cuppa_Char



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Protective Derek, post 5x5, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/pseuds/Cuppa_Char
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles?” </p><p>“They don’t understand,” Stiles attempts, voice stuttering and full of tears. Sobs filling in the gaps, taking his breath away. “Why won’t they just listen to me?”</p><p>“Stiles? What happened? What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice reaches him, concerned, pitched in a tight alertness. It’s sharp against his ear.</p><p>“<i>Please</i>, Derek…” Stiles begs as his words are slurred and swallowed in his despair. “<i>Please</i> come back. <i>Help me</i>.”</p><p>----<br/>He wanted to bitch and moan about Theo. He wanted Derek to believe him, no questions asked, and return to Beacon Hills in an avenging, snarling, claw-wielding cloud of fury. Of course, there was also the risk of Derek thinking he was completely crazy and paranoid, which pretty much summed up <i>everyone</i> right about now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Time Stiles Called Derek

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extended one-shot to a drabble I had on my tumblr. I was also inspired by this lovely gif-set http://damnithale.tumblr.com/post/123071732749/tw-au-derek-sticks-around-for-season-5-insp  
> I've used the quotes in the fic but please check out the original post by damnithale.
> 
> This may very well end up au-divergent to next weeks 5x5 (I suspect it will with what i've heard Jeff has been saying). But for anyone who hasn't seen the promo's or the super-teaser then you should consider this a spoiler.
> 
> T/W: There's some noncon leeryness directed at Stiles, but nothing too major.

* * *

 

 

He answers almost immediately

“Stiles?”

“They don’t understand,” Stiles attempts, voice stuttering and full of tears. Sobs filling in the gaps, taking his breath away. “Why won’t they just listen to me?”

“Stiles? What happened? What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice reaches him, concerned, pitched in a tight alertness. It’s sharp against his ear.

“ _Please_ , Derek…” Stiles begs as his words are slurred and swallowed in his despair. “ _Please_ come back. _Help me.”_

“Are you hurt?” Derek orders him to answer over the phone.

“No,” Stiles manages a shaky sob. He feels silly that he’s broken down so easily. Calling Derek. Scrap that, he’s _aghast_. Despite the building embarrassment, he still can’t push down the building emotions trembling through his body and his voice. Which Derek sure as hell would be able to hear too. Wiping at his face with his crusty, blood-stained sleeve, he tries to suck some of it back down.

“But you’re not okay,” Derek says. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s statement or a question.

“Definitely a 100 % per cent not okay,” Stiles croakily laughs, dryly. It catches in his throat and turns into a hiccup.

“Okay,” Derek breathes steadily into the phone and Stiles thinks it must be for his benefit. A steady breath to listen to and breathe along with. “That’s a first. You’re usual line is ‘I’m fine’ when you’re clearly not.”

Stiles hasn’t been fine for a long time and he’s pretty much given up on trying to pretend that he is. What was the point, anyway? It only built within him and then exploded in a fury. Other people were already noticing. The chemo-signals didn’t help either. Stiles learnt that himself, after hearing about Derek teaching Scott how to smell Stiles emotion on the hospital roof, by looking it up and reading about it.

“I’m in a perpetual state of anxiety,” Stiles says instead.

“You want to talk about it?” Derek asks.

Of course. He wanted to bitch and moan about Theo. He wanted Derek to believe him, no questions asked, and return to Beacon Hills in an avenging, snarling, claw-wielding cloud of fury. Of course, there was also the risk of Derek thinking he was completely crazy and paranoid, which pretty much summed up _everyone_ right about now.

“It’s okay,” Stiles stammers out, biting his tongue. He won’t unload on Derek. He’ll suck it back and go home with his tail-between his leg and ignore the fact that everything was disintegrating, his relationship with Scott included. Besides, Derek left for a reason. He wanted out. Stiles should respect that and ignore the intense selfish need telling him otherwise. “I’ll just get out of your hair. Ignore me and go back to whatever you were doing.”

Stiles tone of voice betrays him, still shaky and strung out, indicating he wanted to do anything apart from disconnect the call.

“Uh, hanging up now…” Stiles says awkwardly when Derek doesn’t respond. _I’ve probably ruined his night_ , Stiles thinks bitterly.

“No,” Derek buts in, voice tinny and muffled from where Stiles thumb hovers over the ‘End Call’. “Is someone with you?”

“What, dude?” Stiles asks, unclear why Derek is asking.

“Is. Someone. With. You?” Derek asks again, voice tight again and Stiles can just imagine the eye-roll that goes along with it. “Scott? Your dad? Put them on.”

“Hmm…” Stiles says, shaking his head, despite the fact that Derek couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m not actually at home. Beacon Hills, I mean.”

His eyes draw out of the jeep’s driver’s side window and looks at the crapped-out motel across the parking lot. It had a 24 hr Diner that sat adjacent to it, a neon flashing light informing him that they still had vacancies.

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

“Some motel…” Stiles says, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid and alone.

“You’re on your own?” Derek asks. Stiles hears the concern in the older man’s voice.

“Ye… yeah,” he says. His voice is strangled in his throat and he knows he sounds like he’s close to crying again. “I’m fine though. Don’t worry about me. This was an impulse thing.”

That much was true. Still a little battered and bruised, the tell-tale signs of blood here and there, after his confrontation with Donovan, Stiles had been running on an exhausted adrenalin, refusing to allow any other thought that contradicted Stiles suspicion of Theo having something to do with the attack. It had built up into an incessant chatter in his tired and ratty brain until he’d erupted in anger in Scott’s face. They’d ended up in a fight, words being thrown here and there until Stiles had pathetically yelled _“I really hate you right now,”_ when Scott appeared to question his sanity.

 _“This isn’t you, Stiles,”_ Scott had said. _“You’re sounding really crazy.”_

He’d stomped away in a fury, despair trapped in his chest, and jumped in the jeep with a sudden need to just _get out._ He’d ended up in a random motel parking lot two hours later and it wasn’t until he’d turned the ignition off and sat in silence for a few minutes that the sobs loosened, panic setting in, as he blindly called Derek, of all people.

“Where are you?” Derek asks.

“Dude,” Stiles sucks in another breath and attempts to keep the loudness of it down. “I said I’m okay.”

“Where. Are. You?” he asks again and Stiles gives in easily, rattling the motel name off.

“I’m about three hours away,” Derek informs him, which surprises Stiles. He’d presumed he was off in Mexico, getting jiggy with Braeden, or visiting Cora. “But I could get there in about two.”

“Dude,” Stiles huffs out even as tears spring from his eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Shut up, Stiles…” Derek snaps at him. Stiles grins even though he’s completely miserable. He missed this. Derek barking at him like the sourwolf he always was. “Get yourself a motel room. Text me the room number. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m a little bit tapped out,” Stiles admits, wincing at the fact he couldn’t even afford the abysmally low prices. He wonders what type of clientele they catered for and what their hygiene levels were inside the rooms. _Questionable_ , he thinks to himself, _with those rates_. “They have a 24 hr diner, but there’s this guy who’s been kind of leering at me through the window since I got here. He’s kind of creeping me out.”

“Okay,” Derek audibly sighs over the phone. “Stay in the jeep. Lock the doors. Don’t open them until I get there.”

“Sir, yes, Sir…” Stiles attempts at humor but it falls flat at his feet.

He disconnects the call, ignoring McLeery, counting the minutes out in between bouts of counting his fingers. The flickering and pulsating light emitted from the neon sign, only now noticeable that one of the letters was broken, and unlit, helped lull him into a false sense of security.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he wakes up to a rapping and Derek frowning at him through the window. He startles, blearily looking around him, and noticing from the Jeep’s blinking clock that Derek had barely passed the two hour mark.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking with exhaustion once he’d rolled the window down.

Derek’s response is to curl his lip in distaste, as though the mere sight of him was disgusting.

“Rude,” Stiles huffs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He glances away and picks at the crust on the bottom of his sleeve. The sleeve itself was dark, so it wasn’t really that obvious that it was blood, but he was pretty sure Derek could tell it was there. “Wasn’t sure you’d come,” Stiles mutters quietly.

“You called me near on midnight,” Derek says, eyes crinkling in concern when his eyes rake over him. “Of course I’d come. I wasn’t going to leave you here on your own.”

“I didn’t need you to come,” Stiles lies. Derek rolls his eyes, obviously knowing it.

“I never said you did,” Derek says instead. He leans down and looks at the interior of the car.

Derek suddenly reaches in through the window and snags Stiles dirty-sleeve, rubbing at the dry blood. Stiles squawks in surprise, and a little pain – reminding him that he had a not so fresh wound there – and tugs it to his chest. “Hey,” Stiles splutters, flailing slightly. “Do you mind?”

“Have you eaten?” Derek ignores his indignation and steps away from the jeep, surveying the diner over his shoulder.

 “You told me not get out of the jeep.”

“When have you ever done anything I’ve told you to do,” Derek says with a raised eyebrow.

“I have you know…” Stiles starts, then loses his train of thoughts, coming up blank. After a beat he grins with a shrug. The sudden thought of food makes his stomach growl angrily, and he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he can’t remember when he last ate. “I’m a little low on cash,” Stiles reminds him. “So that’s a no to food.”

“I’ll pay. My treat,” Derek offers, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t want to be a charity case but he also knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if the sourwolf was offering. Stiles quickly rolls his window back up and scrambles after him.

Once inside the diner, Stiles follows Derek to one of the empty booths, sliding on to the bench. Derek’s already leafing through one of the menus, and taking his blessed time with it, so Stiles has to reach across for the second Menu on the table.

Derek’s eyes track his movement over the menu, catching sight of his wrist and the ugly gash and the stitches that kept the jagged edges together.

“I thought you said you weren’t hurt?” he says, dropping the menu and pulling Stiles sleeve back.

“Cut it on some work tools trying to out-climb the monster of the week,” he says, allowing Derek to turn the wrist and place his hand, palm up on the table. A cool, soothing feeling sinks into his hand and drifts up the arm, so he knows Derek is doing the pain-drain under his own sleeve. “No biggie.”

“You sliced your wrist open, Stiles…” Derek says, annoyed. Stiles content sigh suddenly disappears as Derek releases his hand and sits back on his seat, surveying him. “And you’re not just hurt there, either.”

“Cuts and bruises mostly,” he says, waving Derek’s concern off. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You have a concussion,” Derek says, eyeing his head.

Stiles hand immediately goes to his head to the small, _tiny,_ graze by his temple.

“Jeez, who needs a doctor when they have you?” Stiles quips.

“Stiles…” Derek warns.

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs.

The more he stares at him the more Stiles feels the tug and pull of the cuts and bruises. He hadn’t really felt too bad before – maybe because he’d still been running on adrenalin from the fight or his own confrontation with Scott that had followed – but now he was suddenly feeling achy and tired.

“Who?” Derek orders, eyes flaring in anger. “And please tell me they’re dead.”

“He is,” Stiles nods, drawing his sleeve back over his wrist. “I nearly killed him…”

Stiles had nearly died himself, running from a crazed, shifted Donovan. He’d ended up hiding in the library, scrambling up the metal frame, kicking and screaming as Donovan continued to try and take chunks out of him – if it wasn’t his mouth gnashing at him, it was the hand with a terrifying circle of razor teeth. Stiles had snagged his hand on a blade on the top of the shelves, but one vicious tug from Donovan had caused Stiles to brain himself on one of the bars of the library scaffolding. It had temporarily stunned Stiles, losing his balance, stunning him into a sudden laxness that had taken Donovan by surprise. The resulting impact of Stiles colliding with Donovan had sent them both crashing back to the ground. Stiles had landed right on top of the other boy, and they’d struggled for a hold on the blade, Stiles own blood,  from where it ripped through his skin, slicking it and causing Donovan to lose his hold. Stunned by the impact, Donovan had been unable to shake Stiles off and Stiles self-preservation and anger had kicked in, flared strongly within. He’d been that close to… “But then they turned up and finished the job.”

“They?” Derek asks, curious.

Stiles fills Derek in on the recent attacks and mysterious ‘Dread Doctor’s.

“I guess they targeted Donovan,” he shrugs and rolls his shoulders tiredly. “Who already hated my dad. And me by extension.”

They sit in silence for a while, giving their order to the waitress.

“So,” Derek asks, once the waitress had brought their food and drinks. “Is this the reason you called me?”

“No, not really,” Stiles shrugs, glancing away. “I mean it doesn’t help that Scott wants all the bad guys to live, but that wasn’t the reason.”

“Go on,” Derek prompts.

“I had a fight with him,” he admits. Even as he says it, he feels the sting of tears again. He takes a small bite of burger, playing with his fries, feeling sick all of the sudden.

“Because of Donovan?” Derek asks, watching him push the food around. He sighs, putting the burger back down.

“Because of Theo,” Stiles says bitterly, shoving the burger away completely.

At Derek’s questioning look Stiles continues, “New Beta on the scene. We used to know him when were kids. He just conveniently turns up when all this shit started happening,” he shook his head in frustration. “I don’t trust him, Derek…” Stiles says. The tightness clogs his throat again, drifting across his chest. “And it’s not me being a jealous dick. There’s something off about him. Really _off_ ,” he insists. “I can’t explain it. But I can _feel_ it.”

He wipes at his eyes, knowing he’s about ready to weep again. Damn his stupid, unreliable tear ducts.

“Understandable,” Derek says quietly. “New Beta. It’s rational to be cautious.”

“Don’t,” Stiles snaps at him, hiding his face. “Don’t patronize me. I know what I feel. I _know_ , okay. And Scott refuses to hear me out. I’m right that the signatures don’t match. And it really fucking hurts that Scott thinks I’m being crazy…” he feels the tears finally leak, trying to catch them with his sleeve, but one still escapes, hitting the table in betrayal.

“Hey,” Derek says, snagging his hand and pulling it away. “I never said I didn’t believe you, besides you’re usually right about these things.”

“I was wrong about you,” Stiles says, wiping the errant tears away.

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs, leaning back with a smirk. “I didn’t exactly make it easy for you to trust me.”

“I guess you didn’t, SourWolf” Stiles says with a small watery grin.

Stiles eyes drift over Derek’s shoulder when he feels the presence of someone watching him. McLeery Pants is still there, leering at him.

“What?” Derek asks, seeing Stiles attention drift away.

When the guy realizes Stiles is looking back his leer turns into a grin, licking his lips. “Hi there,” he says, “You looking for a hook-up?”

Stiles flushes, because not only Derek, but everyone else in the near vicinity can probably hear. He doesn’t know if the guy just thinks he’s interested in no strings attached sex or if he thinks Stiles is a hooker.

He flushes further, feeling self-conscious and more than a little skeeved out. The guy, older than Derek, crumpled-suited, tie loose, paperwork scattered around him – salesman, Stiles thinks -  obviously likes the look of messed up, tearful, jail-bait.

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’ and hunkers down in his seat.

“C’mon…” Derek orders prissily, grabbing at his uninjured arm. “Lets go.”

“Just give me a second,” Stiles says. “I need the restroom. I’m feeling really crappy.”

Nausea suddenly raises its ugly head, the little food he’s eaten sitting uncomfortably, tightening his stomach and making him feel bloated.

He leaves Derek to glare at McLeery while he refreshes his face, splashing water over him, and trying to ignore the ugly red puffiness around his eyes.

When he returns he finds that McLeery’s paperwork is scattered all over the floor while McLeery is scrambling to pick it up.

“C’mon,” Derek barks at him when he spots him, grabbing at his arm again, dragging him towards the exit.

“Did you just…?” Stiles asks, craning his neck to look at McLeery, who he now realises is also shakily nursing a bloody nose.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Seriously?” Stiles laughs out loud, momentarily forgetting about his woes. “Did you just defend my honor?”

“Stiles…” Derek warns him, dragging him halfway across the parking lot.

“Am I special snowflake?” he asks, grinning.

“You’re infuriating,” Derek replies instead. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.

“I know,” Stiles says, delighted. “It’s a skill I have.”

Derek surprises him by forking out for a motel room, insisting that it was too late for either of them to drive, and by Stiles lagging body, he had to agree.

He ends up curled on one of the single beds, pulling the scratchy blanket around him, snuffly from all the crying he had done.

“Stiles?” he hears Derek ask.

“Hmm,” Stiles hums, sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

“It would have been self-defence,” Derek says.

“What would have?” he asks wearily, although he knows.

“If you had killed Donovan. It sounded like you had it pretty rough. If it was your only way to survive, then it would have been self-defence.”

Stiles hadn’t realised it had been bothering him until now, Derek’s words covering the invisible wound that Scott’s horror had inflicted. Scott had never looked at him like that before, not even when the Nogitsune had been on the scene. Scott didn’t just think he was going crazy. He was worried that he was still a monster.

“Thanks, dude…” Stiles mutters quietly, letting sleep drag him back down, blearily realising that Derek didn’t scold him for the endearment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He fires a text to Scott once he’s sure Stiles is out cold.

 ** _Stiles with me_** , he says.

 ** _Thank god_** _,_ Scott replies almost immediately. **_He ok?_**

 ** _No!_** is his blunt reply and then as an afterthought, he quickly adds. **_Physically fine. WTF has been happening?_**

**_Long story. Where r u? I’ll come and pick him up._ **

**_Don’t bother. I’ll bring him. Talk when we get there._ **

Scott’s answer doesn’t come straight away, as though he was hesitating in letting Derek take charge, then finally his phone vibrates, alerting him to the alpha’s response.

**_Ok. Prbly need all the help can get._ **

A few seconds later another text comes through. **_Tell Stiles I’m sorry about what I said. K?_**

He calls the Sheriff after who immediately sighs in relief, knowing that Stiles was safe. Stiles, it seems, had gone to Scott’s straight after the hospital visit, so the Sheriff had not even had a chance to see if his son was okay. The sheriff fills him in on some of the events that have occurred, on the unusual hybrid weres and how Deaton believed that they were being ‘made’ instead of being born or bitten. When the subject shifted back to Stiles, he learnt that Stiles behaviour had been considered, by a lot of people, to be irrational and increasingly worrisome. Increased irritability and anger, over-focused to the point of aggression.

He scrutinises the younger boy from where he lay on the other bed. No wonder Stiles was mess – his best friend and own father were questioning his sanity – and on any other person Derek would have to agree. But he couldn’t deny the kid’s persistent ability to act on a gut instinct – of course, Stiles wasn’t always right – but for the most of it, the instinct proved correct.

Stiles chemo-signals were all over the place too. He stunk with so much anxiety, mixing with the bitter undertones of despair and an acidic betrayal, that it swirled in his own stomach, churning it.

He’d take Stiles home.

And he’ll stay if he has to. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Jeep won’t start in the morning.

Stiles fiddles with it, even wrapping an unhealthy amount of duct tape around questionable body parts, but no matter how much he prods and pokes it, the car refuses to start.

Stiles growls in frustration, kicking at the side of the jeep.

“Does that help?” Derek asks.

“Usually,” Stiles pouts and then rubs his eyes. “I’m really tired,” he tries to guilt-trip the stubborn car. “Don’t do this to me.”

“I’ll drive you,” Derek tells him. “We’ll arrange for a tow”

“You’re not paying for a tow,” Stiles stubbornly insists.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Derek hardens his glare and Stiles stares him off with an equally angry glare. “Fine, you can pay me back when you have the money.”

Stiles tries to fight him on the issue but backs down, slumping into the passenger seat of Derek’s SUV. He sleeps for most of the trip back, clearly still exhausted. The remainder of the night, back in the motel room, was hardly restful. Derek had listened to him, snuffling every now and then, restless and agitated, brain refusing to switch off completely.

He hands over a Turkey sub and a bottle of water he’d bought from the diner before leaving which Stiles, thankfully, polishes off.

“Thanks,” Stiles says while finishing the water. “Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“Right,” Derek rolls his eyes and then says gruffly. “You should look after yourself more.”

Stiles huffs a breath and looks away. “Sure,” he says, turning a wane smile in his direction.

They stop by the station first. The Sheriff takes one look at Stiles pasty face and the still slightly puffy eyes and draws his son into a hug. Stiles sinks right into it, burying his face into his dad’s shoulder, shoulders shaking.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, although Derek isn’t entirely sure he knows what he’s apologising for. From what Derek knows about the boy it wouldn’t surprise him to know that Stiles was simply trying to make his dad feel better, even if it made himself feel worse.

“We really need to talk about this,” the Sheriff says, pushing Stiles away so that he could study him further. He braces Stiles face between his hands before brushing his unkempt hair backwards. “Go with Derek to Scott’s. Talk to him. Get everything laid out and off your chest. We’ll talk tonight, okay kiddo?”

Stiles nods and blindly follows after Derek, teetering on unsteady legs.

They drive to Scott’s in silence. The only sound Stiles makes is when they arrive to see Scott outside his house, waiting for them – an audible gasp as he tries to calm his nerves.

“What were you thinking!” Scott snaps when they finally exit the car.

Stiles flinches at Scott’s anger, although Derek can see his own anger bristling.

“That’s enough,” Derek hisses at Scott, stepping in front of Stiles. “In the house now.”

“What…?” Scott says, clearly surprised.

Derek pushes past the alpha, only pausing to make sure Stiles follows. Scott watches them both pass, abruptly turning on his heel to shadow them in.

Liam, Malia and Kira are also there, and someone that Derek doesn’t recognise. He’s leant against the wall that leads into the kitchen, an easy and comfortable pose.

Stiles tenses even further when he spots him, while Liam and Kira exchange uneasy glances.

“Stiles,” the boy says, practically drawing out his name. Derek instantly dislikes him. From the way he says his name to the look he gives Stiles, eyes raking over him with disinterest, a feigned concerned tone to his voice. “We were worried about you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, a scowl on his face, eyes rolling. “Right.”

“Theo, I presume...” Derek says, drawing the boy’s attention away from Stiles.

Theo turns and nods, stepping away from the wall and offering his hand in greeting.

“Can you leave?” Derek says, ignoring the outstretched hand.

He hears Stiles snort behind him.

“Passive aggressive much?” Theo says, smirking. He keeps his hand out in greeting for a beat longer and then shrugs, pulling it away.

“I need to speak to Scott and the others in private,” Derek clarifies.

“He means out of wolfy super-hearing range,” Stiles says. He’s apparently more confident because he slides up to Derek’s side, eye-balling Theo hard.

“I know what he means, Stiles…” Theo says. He turns to look at Scott.

“Go,” Scott says, nodding. “I’ll call you later.”

He hears Stiles mutter a surprised _‘you have his number now?’_

Theo nods and leaves.

Once Derek is sure he can’t sense the werewolf he turns to Scott, eyebrows raised.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Scott splutters. “What the hell did Stiles say to you?” At Derek’s continued raised eyebrows and expectant stare, Scott shrugs in anger and annoyance. “Derek, you know he has trust issues.”

Stiles stomps forward, sharp and edgy, indignant.

“C’mon man,” Scott tries to insist. “You know you do, you even said so yourself.”

“Scott, I know you’re all about seeing the good in people,” Stiles says, leaning in, almost whispering it in his insistence. “But I’m telling you, Theo’s not one of the good guys.”

“I’m with Stiles on this,” Derek announces – he’d spent only a few minutes in his presence but his wolf-like instincts already screamed at him not to trust the beta. Stiles turns, surprised, to look at him. A look of relief washes over him and his body sags as though the burden of knowing – and therefore doing something about it – had been lessened. “I don’t trust him either.”

“The two of you don’t trust anybody,” Scott sighs tiredly, he leans against the wall to the living room, suddenly looking just as tired as Stiles. “If you two had it your way, you to would just be in pack by yourselves.”

“Like a marriage,” Liam quips nervously, trying to distinguish the tense atmosphere. Kira snorts and Malia frowns.

“No,” Derek and Stiles both mutter, which makes Liam smirk and Scott shake his head with his own little grunt of amusement.

“I never said I trusted him, Stiles…” Scott attempts.

“Then what are you doing?” Stiles asks, shaking his head in both frustration and confusion.

“I don’t think I actually know,” Scott muses. He turns a miserable look in his friend’s direction. “But I know I still need you.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. Derek watches as he straightens himself, trying to make himself taller, stronger than what he probably feels. “You’ve still got me.”

Scott smiles at him, reaching out and pulling Stiles into him, curling his arm around him. Stiles reacts instinctually, grabbing onto Scott and holding on tight, with much more vigor and possession than he had with the Sheriff.

It was obvious that something had fractured between Stiles and Scott, Derek could smell the disintegration of it – he could taste it in the air and feel it on his clothes. He didn’t know when this schism actually happened, but he knew he had to stay to fix it.

For now at least.

 

* * *

 

 

  _Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for all the sap :D


End file.
